


A Graceless Age

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case gone wrong triggers a personal crisis for Jim. Told from  Blair's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Graceless Age

## A Graceless Age

by Blaze

Author's website:  <http://www.dreamwater.net/ladyblaze>

1) I am not making any money. 2) I do not own the characters. 3) No copyright infringement of any kind is intended. 4) This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Deepest thanks to Nancy Taylor, the best beta one could ask for. It should be known that there are one or two points where I ignored her suggestions, and stubbornly kept things the way they were because to make the changes would have changed the feel/mood of the story or because I *wanted* it that way. So Nancy didn't miss a thing, and any remaining mistakes are all my fault. <g>

Takes place post-TSbyBS. Blair is a cop and he and Jim are established lovers. Adult Language; Violence against children; Evil! William Ellison.

This story is a sequel to: No 

* * *

I don't know how he's done it. I mean, considering all the shit he's been through, my Jim has kept it all together amazingly well over the years. He'd have to, I guess. You don't get through Covert Ops, being stranded in the jungle, or the re-emergence of Sentinel senses by being a wuss, right? But now as I lay here, holding him - shaking and fighting back tears - in my arms at 3 A.M. after another horrendous nightmare, I wonder if this will be the thing that breaks him. And if I will be able to pick up the pieces if it does. 

It all started about ten days ago when Simon threw a doozy of a case our way. The door to his office flew open, and our Captain shot out yelling, "Ellison! Sandburg! Hostage situation at 1012 C Street! Roll! I'll call your cell in three minutes with the details!" 

The desperate urgency in Simon's voice forestalled any questions, and we grabbed our jackets and bolted for the stairs. Jim threw his phone in the middle of the truck seat, then climbed in and peeled out of the garage, leaving the scent of burnt rubber behind us. Two blocks from the station, the phone rang. I picked it up, glancing at Jim. A quick nod answered my unspoken question as to whether he had his hearing turned up enough to listen in. Pushing the button, I answered. "Hi, Simon, it's Blair. Jim's listening." 

"Okay, Sandburg. Here's the situation: Councilman Cohen's niece and grand-niece are being held by the niece's estranged husband. As close as we can figure, he's gone off the deep end over the divorce and custody negotiations. A SWAT team and hostage negotiator will meet you there. I want you two to help out SWAT Captain Harris on this. I want Jim to get wired up, then go inside and relay whatever recon he can to Harris. But mostly I want you to get the woman and child out of there before anyone gets hurt." 

"10-4, Captain. We're on it," I replied, and ended the call. Looking at Jim again, I saw his jaw muscle jumping rapidly - never a good sign. "You get all that, Jim?" I asked, more to make conversation than anything else. 

He didn't answer, focused as he was on getting us to the scene as quickly as possible, but as we pulled up to a sea of flashing lights, I heard him growl, "A kid. Why can't people learn to leave kids the hell out of it?" 

I had no time to respond to that. Jim had already left the truck and was striding rapidly to the SWAT van. I scrambled out and hurried after him. Good thing I'm fast, 'cause Jim can move like a bullet when he wants to. He was donning the wire when I caught up, talking with an older man, whom I presumed was Captain Harris. They exchanged information and suggestions in rapid, clipped tones as Jim finished with the wire, then reached to grab two Kevlar vests. Tossing me one, he reminded me to "Check your weapon, Chief." I did so, quickly making sure the safety was off and the gun ready to fire, if necessary, before reholstering it and shimmying into the vest. Thanks to Jim's extra coaching, I can now get into one of those contraptions as quickly as he can. 

Following the plan Captain Harris had devised, the hostage negotiator moved closer to the front of the house and began to speak through the bullhorn, providing a distraction while Jim and I cautiously circled around to the rear of the home. Jim muttered a few choice curses when we discovered the back door locked. Neither of us had a lockpick kit handy, so we edged around the side of the house to see what we could find out that way. Suddenly, there was the sound of a slap and a woman's sharp cry of pain that you didn't need to be a Sentinel to hear. Jim flinched, and I laid my hand on his arm. "Turn your hearing down a bit. Can you see anything? Try to get a fix on their location," I encouraged him. 

Jim raised his head slowly, peering through the blinds. From the look of intense concentration on his face, I could tell he was extending his sight hard, his eyes probing through the interior darkness in search of the hostages. "Got 'em," he murmured after a moment, then keyed the mic to fill Captain Harris and me in at the same time. 

"They're in the front room. Towards the rear and against the east wall. Perp is armed with a semi-automatic and holding adult female with a length of chain around her neck. Hostage appears to be bleeding from a wound to the temple. Second hostage, minor female, is on all fours on the floor about three feet kitty-corner left from first hostage, and appears unharmed." If I didn't know Jim better, I'd have been surprised at the impersonal, dispassionate way he described such a potentially volatile situation. But I know him well enough by now to know that the colder he appears on the surface, the more he's feeling underneath. All his protective instincts had to be going crazy, screaming at him to rush in there and pound that scumbag till there was nothing left but a little grease spot. 

I was about to ask what our next move was going to be when he stiffened and growled. "Goddamn! Son-of-a-bitch just kicked the kid!" Suddenly, he began a running commentary, letting me see and hear through his senses,and the horror of it turned my stomach, even secondhand. "She's fighting him, telling him to leave the kid alone. He's saying if he can't have the kid, she won't either. He's aiming at the kid! Now at her! He's pistol-whipping her!" Jim keyed the mic again. "Reaching critical mass here, Sir. Hostages' lives in danger! . . . 10-4, moving in." He took off at a dead run to the back door, with me right on his heels. We heard a single shot on the way, but whether it came from inside the house or out, I couldn't tell. A well-placed kick from Jim splintered the door, and we both entered with weapons drawn. A quick scan assured Jim of no hidden attackers, and we moved to the front room to meet up with Harris' men. 

I nearly lost my lunch at the sight that greeted us. The woman lay sprawled like a broken doll on the carpet, the chain still around her neck, cruelly embedded in the flesh. A small, neat hole between her still-open, terrified, but unseeing eyes, belied the blood, brains, and gore splattered on the wall behind her, dripping down to soak into the rug. I must have been an inter-esting shade of green, 'cause Jim shoved an evidence bag in my hand, pointing me to the abandoned gun in the opposite corner in an obvious attempt to distract me, before moving to help Harris' men subdue the perp. 

Our shooter was struggling against three members of the SWAT team, yelling and screaming that he'd done nothing wrong, that he only wanted his kid. Jim put one hand at the small of the man's back, fisted the other in his hair, and pulled back so hard that I was afraid he'd snap him in two. As it was, he only wrenched the guy's spine into an unnatural position, enabling him to drive the perp to his knees, then forward onto his stomach so he could be cuffed. I found a spent casing and had just added it to the bag, when I noticed Jim scanning the area, looking dazed and a little lost. Handing the bag off to one of the SWAT team, I took Jim's arm and steered him to the side. "What is it, Jim? What are you sensing?" I asked in a low voice. 

"It's what I'm not sensing," he answered. "Where's the kid? I saw the little girl, but now she's not here." 

I looked around, and sure enough, no child in sight. Somehow in the mayhem of the shooting and arrest, she had been temporarily forgotten and was now nowhere to be found. Doing a quick headcount, I turned my attention back to Jim. "Okay, there's five, besides us, in this room. Filter out their heartbeats, then range out slowly and find the sixth," I suggested quietly. I kept a gentle but firm grip on his wrist as he closed his eyes and concentrated. I sure didn't want to explain a zone or try to bring him out of one in front of a bunch of strangers. 

After a few moments, his head turned. "Over here," he said, walking out of the living room and around a kitchen island to stand in front of a china hutch in the dining room. He squatted down and opened one of the sliding cabinet doors at the bottom. "Sweetheart?" he called gently. "It's okay now. You're safe. You can come on out now." 

"No," replied a trembling, childish voice. "Mommy told me never to go with strangers. I want my Mommy!" 

Jim tried the other sliding door, but it was either stuck or nailed shut. I knew he wouldn't reach in and scare the child further by dragging her out by force, and it was obvious he didn't know what else to say to persuade her, so I crouched down beside him. "Your mom told you right, Honey. But did she also tell you that it's okay to trust policemen?" I added my voice to his efforts. "We're policemen. We help people, especially little girls. So it's okay to come out. I promise no one's going to hurt you." 

There was a rustling sound, then the top of a tiny head, followed by a pair of pixie-like eyes came into view. "How I know you-all's da policemen?" came the childish demand. I unclipped my badge from my belt and showed it to her. "Only policemen have these," I assured her. 

She looked from my badge to my partner. "He a policeman too?" Jim pulled his badge to show to her as well, and when I glanced at him, it was only the seriousness of the situation that kept me from laughing out loud. I mean, here's this big, intimidating, trained killer trying to make himself look as small and non-threatening as possible for this little girl. 

Apparently we convinced her, because she crawled the rest of the way out and stood in front of us, her eyes glancing shyly back and forth between us. She was a beautiful child, with long black hair and big dark eyes that would melt the coldest heart. Her tear-streaked face and smudged, torn little dress could have broken those same hearts, and starkly reminded me of the tragedy that had occurred only a few yards away. Breaking the silence, I decided to start with the basics. "I'm Blair, and this is my partner, Jim. What's your name, Sweetie?" 

"Gr-Grace," she said softly, and I heard Jim draw his breath in sharply, a painful sound that ended in an almost-sob. I looked at him, and was surprised to see his face suddenly appear as if it had been carved from stone. 

Hmmm, something was definitely going on, but I didn't have time to figure it out right then. Turning back to the child, I asked, "And how old are you, Grace?" She held up four pudgy fingers in reply. "That's a good age to be. Are you hurt anywhere?" I continued. 

She touched her left ribcage. "My side hurts. Daddy hurt me. Where's Mommy? I want my Mommy!" 

My heart nearly broke at her innocent plea. Someone was going to have to tell this child that her mother was dead, but it was going to have to be someone stronger than me. "Mommy's not here right now," I said around the lump in my throat. "But we'll take care of you. Why don't you come with us, and we'll find someone to make the hurt stop. You can even get something to eat, if you're hungry." 

Until now, we had avoided touching her, trying to earn her trust. Now I held out my hands in a friendly, inviting gesture. After a moment, she wiggled her way into my arms, clinging tightly. As we rose, Jim removed his jacket and tossed it lightly over her, 'accidentally' completely covering her head in the process. I was grateful for this. The last thing little Grace needed to see was the carnage of her mother's slaughter. Jim steered me carefully through the minefield of the front room, keeping his body between mine and that of the dead woman. I appreciated this also, as I wasn't too keen on seeing the corpse again if I didn't have to. 

Once outside, we found an EMT. After receiving reassurances that Grace had no broken bones, and would be placed in the care of Child Protective Services, we hugged her goodbye and returned to the house to help Captain Harris with after-case clean-up. "Man, this sucks! Mother's Day right round the corner and now she has to grow up without one," I muttered as we walked across the yard. Taking another look at Jim, I saw that his "stone-faced man" visage had not changed. "Hey, Babe, you okay?" I asked subvocally, for his ears alone. We had agreed to keep our working and personal relationships totally separate, but my worry for him compelled me across that line. 

I was rewarded with a laser-sharp glare that would have had someone who didn't know him running for cover. "Fine, Sandburg," he snapped. "Let's get done and get the hell out of here." 

Yep, he was fine. Riiight! Looked more like another trip to Camp Denial to me, but then was not the place or time to push the issue. I figured cases involving kids were always tough, so I'd let it ride and try again when we got home. We finished up with Captain Harris, then went back to the precinct to report in to our own Captain Banks and fill out the usual triplicate paperwork before heading home. It was my turn to cook that night, and I figured a 'comfort food' meal of meatloaf and macaroni would calm my grouchy Sentinel and make him more open to sharing whatever was eating at him. 

Boy, was I ever wrong! My gentle-toned, introductory comment of "Jim, what about the case today is bothering you? Is it the little girl, or that the woman died despite anything that anyone could do?" was met with a snarled "Damn it, Sandburg, leave it alone! I don't want to talk about it, and you're not going to _make_ me talk about it this time!" 

Well, alrighty then! So maybe I could have been a little more subtle, but the direct approach usually works best with Jim, especially if he's having a really hard time with something. I decided to let it go for the time being. After dinner, he stretched out on the couch to watch TV. I started to sit in a chair, but he called me over and pulled me down to lie on top of him. That was nice. Apparently it wasn't me he wanted to dispense with, just conversation. I could live with that. So we lay there in silence for an hour or so before heading to bed. 

When he took me that night, it was rougher than usual, with little of the tenderness that was typical of our lovemaking, though I could tell he was careful not to hurt me. I wasn't worried; I knew the rough sex was just his outlet for whatever fucked up emotions were roiling around inside him. Far from feeling used, I was gratified that when my Sentinel was hurting and in need, it was me he reached for. Perhaps I even egged him on a bit, just to let him know it was safe for him to feel and show even his darker emotions around me. 

I woke several hours later to find him twitching and moaning, apparently in the grip of some nightmare. I rolled out of bed - knowing that the ex-Ranger could kill any perceived threat within arm's reach before coming fully awake - and started calling his name. When that didn't wake him, I grabbed my hairbrush from the dresser and lobbed it onto his chest. He bolted upright, spouting a string of curses that made my ears burn. "Easy, Jim. It's just me. You were having a nightmare.You okay? Easy, now." He lay back down with a groan, burying his face in the pillow and reaching out his arm for me to rejoin him. I slid under the covers and cuddled close to him, trying to rub some of the tension out of his back and shoulders. "What were you dreaming, Jim? Was it about the case today?" I tried to draw him out. 

He groaned again and said, "Please don't, Blair. I know you're trying to help, and I love you for it, but I can't talk about it. Just not - yet. Let's just go back to sleep, okay?" His quiet words stopped me short in a way his anger never would have, and I remained silent. I don't think either of us got much more sleep that night, though. 

Over the next few days, Jim appeared to act fairly normal, if a little quieter than usual. We worked our cases, joked with our co-workers, and had normal conversations as long as the topic was not little Grace or the shooting. The one time I tried to bring it up again, I got another taste of the glacial stare, and Jim didn't talk to me for several hours. Nights were a different story, though. He continued to have at least one nightmare, sometimes more, per night, and the lack of sleep was starting to wear on us both. After one particularly bad one, which he woke upscreaming from, he tried to convince me I should sleep in my old room fora while, claiming he was concerned for my safety. I was having none of it,though I did compromise by spending the rest of that night on a pile of blankets on the floor upstairs. 

I wasn't going to put up with that for very long either, so the next night, I sat him down on the couch and spelled it out for him. "Look, I know you don't want to talk about whatever's bugging you, but when it gets to the point you're kicking me out of our bed, something's got to give. I'm your work partner, your life partner, and your best friend.For God's sake, let me help you here, Jim! Just talk to me." 

He looked hard at me, but instead of the expected anger, I was surprised to see . . . defeat? . . . in his eyes. God, whatever was going on inside that very thick skull of his, it must be some serious shit to make Jim feel beaten! 

"Blair," he said tiredly, "did it ever occur to you that maybe there's a reason for repression? That maybe there's some stuff that's just too painful to pull out and parade around? That maybe there's things that would drive me insane if I didn't just put it out of my mind?" 

Wow, talk about feeling like you've been gut-punched! I didn't know what to say to that, but I knew I had to try. Thinking fast, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I might buy that, if we were talking about something that actually _was_ repressed. But the nightmares you've been having make it pretty clear to me that it's at the forefront of yourmind, and doing a pretty good job of driving you crazy already. This may not be the best analogy, but think of it as a physical wound. Some heal up fine on their own, and some fester. This one has come to a head; it's time to cleanse it before it poisons you." 

There was a long silence, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd gotten through at all when Jim spoke, so softly I had to strain to hear. 

"My - my mother's name . . . was Grace," he choked out, then fell quiet again, as if that one sentence explained everything. 

It didn't, of course, but it did cause several large pieces of the puzzle to fall into place for me. I sat beside him, our thighs touching, and laid a hand on his knee. "Tell me about your mother, Jim," I said, putting all the caring and support I could into my words. 

Jim was quiet, but I didn't push, knowing he needed to get his emotions under control and his thoughts in order. Finally he began to speak. "There really isn't much to tell. And most of what I do remember has to do with her _not_ being there. I remember playing in my room one time - I must have been about five or six - then she and Dad started arguing. He was yelling at her to find something in the storage room. She must have accidentally dropped a box, or maybe deliberately dumped it, 'cause I hear this crash. Dad goes storming in there and starts hitting her. I hear him slapping her - over and over and over again. She's crying and begging him to stop, but he doesn't. I'm scared to death, but I run in there and grab his arm. He turns around and backhands me halfway across the room. I remember lying there, sprawled against some boxes, hating him for hurting her and hating myself for not being able to help her. Not long after that - maybe a year or two - I come home from school and she's gone. No explanations, no goodbyes, just - gone. She must have had visitation or something, because I remember her picking Stevie and me up a few times after that and taking us to the park or something. But mostly I remember Dad telling us she was coming by, and more often than not, she'd never show up. That made me think she didn't really want to see us. I've already told you some of how Dad raised us. Do you have any idea what that does to a kid's head - to believe that neither parent could care less about them? One day, I realized that it had been years since I'd seen or heard from her, and I probably never would again. Coming up through school, I never knew what to say when a new teacher would ask about my mother, or why she never came to any parent-teacher conferences. And I hated it when they had those class projects of making hand-made Mother's Day cards. I always used to throw mine away on the way home. I mean, I loved Sally, but it wasn't the same, you know? Then there was the time I was about twelve and came home with a 'B' on my report card. Dad hit the roof over that. He said the only thing a 'B' stood for was second-best, and there was no way any son of his was going to be second best at anything. I made the mistake of saying I bet Mom wouldn't think so, and I wished she was there to be proud of me. He grabbed me, dragged me to my room, yanked off his belt,threw me on the bed, and started whipping me. I tried to get away, but he grabbed me by the ankle and kept whaling away, hitting me over and over again. I was still small - hadn't hit my growth spurt yet - and Icouldn't get away no matter what I tried. He was yelling that my motherwas gone, and I was never to mention or even _think_ of her again. I didn't think he was ever going to stop hitting me. I carried the weltsand bruises from that one for weeks. Guess I made myself forget about her after that, though I do remember looking for her at my high schoolgraduation. Hell, even Dad made a token appearance then, but Mom was nowhere around. After that, it was college, then the Army, and, well you pretty much know the rest." 

By the time Jim finished, I could tell he was physically and emotionally drained. My heart ached for him and my eyes brimmed with tears. I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his neck. "Oh, God, Babe," I whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through all that!" 

"It's not your fault. You didn't do any of it," he murmured as he rubbed my back. 

I cupped his face in both my hands, looking him dead in the eyes. "I know that. But I'm still sorry it happened to you. And I'm sorry the shooting brought it all back. That's what did it, isn't it? The little girl's name, the domestic violence, my stupid crack about her growing up without a mother?" 

"It's not your fault, Blair," he reassured me again. "Shit happens. We deal." 

"Yeah? Well, deal with this, Ellison. You are the kindest, most decent person I've ever met. I'm proud to be your friend and your lover. And if anyone - now or in thepast or future - can't see how wonderful you are, then it's their loss!" I told him firmly. 

"You're just prejudiced, Chief. And I'm tired. Let's call it a night, okay? And Babe? . . . Thanks - for listening," he replied as we climbed the stairs. 

I made slow, tender love to him that night, with my hands and my mouth. It was as if talking to me had broken some inner barrier, because I'd never seen him so responsive. His every nerve seemed wide open and on fire. It was a challenge, trying to keep up with him as he squirmed and writhed across the bed. His back arched, taut as a bowstring, as he teetered on the edge, and I swear I've never heard a sweeter sound than what he made when he came, screaming my name. He collapsed, exhausted and nearly catatonic, so there was no reciprocation that night. But it was all right; I wanted it to be all about him that night anyway. At least he didn't refuse me, and I knew that deep down, he needed whatever comfort my touch could give him. So afterwards, I just held him until I felt his trembling stop and his breath even out in sleep. Blessedly, he slept without nightmares that night. 

They haven't stopped completely, though. The several he's had since then, and the fact that I'm holding him now at 3 A.M. after another one's ripped him from sleep, is proof of that. I only hope we can weather this latest crisis - together, like we've faced everything else these past few years. All I know is that whatever it takes, whatever he needs, I'll be here for him. He's my love. I'm his Guide. It's my job. 

**~FINIS~**

* * *

End A Graceless Age by Blaze: gypsy1228@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
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